Asahi Falls —Mendicant Shakuhachi Monks and the Izu Pennisula— Christopher Yohmei Blasdel
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Asahi Falls —Mendicant Shakuhachi Monks and the Izu Pennisula— Christopher Yohmei Blasdel Asahi Falls, Ōdaira, Izu. Photograph by the author. 1 The anfractuous road from Shūzen-ji to the Amagi Pass winds through the middle of the mountainous Izu Peninsula. It cuts across small villages, traverses deep rivers filled with fresh, running waters and traces hairpin curves that straddle exquisitely terraced rice paddies. Every turn offers a stunning vista of towering mountains and verdant slopes. These views are juxtaposed with glimpses of local daily life as village residents make their way back and forth from school, shopping or their work in the fields and forests. One of the small communities the road passes along the way is Ōdaira. From the center of this settlement, a small lane leaves the road and makes its way up westward to the edge of the mountain, where is situated the remains of an old temple, a shrine and a magnificent waterfall that cascades from on high out of the forested hillside. This eastward-facing waterfall is named Asahi Daki (“Morning-sun waterfall”), and the name of temple—or the empty space where it once stood—is Rōgen-ji (literally, “origin of the waterfall”). A sign at the entrance to the area tells the visitor that Rōgen-ji was a ko- musō temple. Komusō, the sign informs us, were a band of itinerant monks who covered their heads with deep basket hats, called tengai, and wandered the Japanese countryside playing the shakuhachi bamboo flute and begging for alms. These monks belonged to the Fuke Sect, which was loosely connected to the Rinzai sect of Zen Buddhism, and Rōgen-ji was an affiliate temple of Rei- hō-ji Temple in Ōme, now a municipality of Tokyo in western mountainous re- gion. Reihō-ji was the most important of all the komusō temples in the Kanto Plain. Rōgen-ji was the only komusō temple in Izu. Now, the only thing remain- ing of the temple now are some weathered graves and the empty site itself. Closer to the road, however, is Ryūsen-ji temple that still appears to host activ- ity. It was formerly the host temple to Rōgen-ji.1 The sign also points out that the Asahi Daki waterfall inspired the famous shakuhachi piece, Taki Otoshi no Kyoku; appropriately named the “Water-Falling Piece.” As far as information signs go in Japan it is accurate, though of course it leaves a lot unsaid. According to local documents, Rōgen-ji was originally built as a temple of the Shingon sect in the late Muromachi period. It was abandoned and then, around the early 17th century, became attached to Ryūsen-ji as an in- 2 Historical sign, designating the Rōgen-ji ruins as Izu City cultural property, posted by the Izu City Educational Division (March 25, 1999). Photograph by the author. dependent inner sanctuary. Its secretive location right next to the waterfall was perfect for spiritual contemplation. The shrine, Ōdaira Jinja, was built much later, in 1860, to the side of the waterfall and has little to do with the history of Rōgen-ji. The Fuke sect of shakuhachi playing Zen monks was officially established in the late 17th century. Their mission in Edo Japan was to strive for enlighten- ment through playing the shakuhachi and learn various set pieces known as honkyoku. Before the sect became officially organized, however, its members consisted mostly of a motley mob of beggars who played the shakuhachi and wandered the country. They needed a place to gather, sleep, and practice shakuhachi, so convincing local temples to become Fuke sect related temples (fuke-dera) was an obvious solution. Since Rōgen-ji had been long abandoned, it was easy for the wandering komusō monks of the time to use it as a residence, much like a present day squatter might inhabit a derelict building. The location was ideal, as the temple was set apart from the main road by a waterfall but close enough to the sur- rounding villages to get support from the locals. Soon, other komusō monks joined in to create a small community. They were in need of leadership and di- rection, however, and records show that Rōgen-ji’s first permanent abbot, Ippū 3 Oshō, came to live there sometime around 1716. After that, there was a succes- sion of abbots, but there were also periods when Rōgen-ji had no resident priest. Even today, there are temples and shrines, especially in rural Japan, that cannot afford to support a full-time priest, and these temples lie fallow for years with just the bare minimum of upkeep. Next to the Rōgen-ji temple ruins are a set of seven gravestones, shaped like elongated bird’s eggs sticking out of the ground. From the inscription on these stones, together with records kept in the nearby affiliate temple Kinryū-ji, it seems that Rōgen-ji had a total of ten abbots over a period of 160 years. These records also indicate that the last abbot, Kaiga, had to contend with the enor- mous upheaval in society and the demise of the Fuke Sect occasioned by the Meiji Restoration in 1868, but more about that later. According to one account, by the end of the 17th century there were sup- posedly over 120 Fuke Temples throughout Japan, although there are no precise records of individual names. Once the Fuke sect became organized, it tended toward exclusiveness, aimed for respectability and weeded out the riff-raff. This would have been necessary in order for the Fuke sect to be recognized as an official religion by the Tokugawa government, which it did in 1677. Edo Period documents are not always accurate, and the early twentieth century scholar, Nakatsuka Chikuzen, compiled all the information regarding komusō temples which ever existed and came up with a list of 77, which he sorted according to the sects listed in the archives at Myōan-ji temple in Kyoto, which was the head Fuke Temple. Rōgen-ji is on that list. It is difficult to know for sure what occurred in the komusō temples during their heyday—and Rōgen-ji did seem to be an important one—but there is some indication from historical sources. The daily life for monks in Zen tem- ples—then and now—is very structured and revolves around a schedule of rit- ual: the intonation of prayers according to the time of day, meal-taking, work-related activities, sutra chanting, long sitting sessions of zazen and lec- tures or individual sessions by the head priest. It was the same for the komusō temples, except instead of sitting medita- tion, the shakuhachi became the focus of the monks’ attention. Prayers were re- placed by shakuhachi meditative honkyoku pieces, and zazen, which literally means just “sitting Zen,” was replaced by suizen, which indicates “blowing Zen,” 4 or the attainment of enlightenment through breath and sound. Again at night, after their daily training finished, the monks played honkyoku to mark the time and occasion. Zen meditation is something one can practice through any activity, but blowing the shakuhachi, with its need to concentrate on the body, breath and posture, is particularly conducive to meditative awareness. The komusō monks were required to go begging periodically. This meant going out into the community to gather alms, either food or money, from the townspeople. This is common in Buddhist countries, and although now rela- tively rare in Japan, the practice is still widely followed in other such Buddhist countries as Thailand or Sri Lanka. Begging is thought to be a sacred activity and provide ‘merit’ for both the beggar and the person giving alms.2 It was also a way for the komusō to make a living. The komusō had a very elaborate uniform that consisted of kimono, a brocade sash, arm guards and leggings and, most importantly, the deep, tengai straw hat that covered their whole head. The tengai assured anonymity, but it also provided a sense of a powerful and mysterious oth- er-worldliness to the monks and, I suspect, exerted a kind psychological pressure on the simple coun- try folk to force them to provide alms. There is a phenomena in present day Japan, Typical komusō costume of the late Edo Period. kosu-purei where men and woman wear the costume (Drawing by Abe Tomio). and mien of various characters: school girls, wait- resses, samurai, etc. Like donning a mask, it allows the individual to subsume the identity (and hence, power or sexuality) of something other than themselves. Nowadays it is done as divertissement and distraction, but one can see the impetus of this desire in such activities as the ancient masked drama and komusō monks. During their pilgrimages, the komusō monks obviously couldn’t hold a begging bowl since they had to use their hands to play the shakuhachi. So in- stead of using a bowl, they hung a wooden box for alms around their neck 5 written with the kanji “Myōan” (“light-dark”). This was in reference to the head Fuke temple, Myōan-ji, in Kyoto. Myōan refers to a shibboleth, found in the 17th century Kyotaku Denki Kokuji-tai, that all komusō monks held dear: Myōtō rai, myōtō da. Antō rai, Antō da. This passage, originally from the Annals of Rin- zai—the teachings of the 8th Century Chinese monk Linji Yixuan (Rinzai in Jap- anese)—literally translates as “If light comes I will strike it. If dark comes I will strike it.” It is an admonition not to be deceived by duality or differences. As within the temple, the monks played certain pieces outside according to the situation.